


Pockets Full of Miracles

by LillysoftheValley



Series: Allsorts - A Collection of Assorted GO Ficlets [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23948701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillysoftheValley/pseuds/LillysoftheValley
Summary: Aziraphale's pockets are always full, and he always finds what he needs, but perhaps never quite what he expects.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Allsorts - A Collection of Assorted GO Ficlets [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650484
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Pockets Full of Miracles

By far, in the whole scope of human innovation, Aziraphale's favorite invention is pockets.

Satchels and bags and baskets were serviceable, but things do tend to get jumbled around, and they do have a tendency to get lost (or stolen, unfortunately). But a pocket - now, a pocket is with you all the time, nice and handy.

Granted, it took a bit to get the design right. The removable purses that tied at the waist were somewhat inconvenient, and led to a whole new career of thievery, but eventually the purse became a part of the garment itself and that was much more enjoyable for Azirapahle. Now, he could always have a little something on hand.

He is an angel, after all, so any time he chanced upon a traveling pilgrim, or a lonely orphan, or someone who just needed a friend, he would always seem to find just enough bread in one pocket or another to share. Medicines appeared when he passed by hospitals or visited battlefields. And he always found a penny or two for a charitable donation. Little things like that were always turning up in his pockets, just when he needed them. Hardly counts as a miracle, really. Very handy things, pockets.

Pockets are also handy for keeping things hidden, Aziraphale discovered. Like little things shared between enemies. Nothing untoward, nothing _bad_. A bit of bread there, a few figs there, a wineskin or two. Just a courtesy, really. Wasn't charity a virtue? It was never planned, never any ulterior motive. It was simply a human gesture. Blending in, they would call it when questioned. The problem was, it was hard to keep anything from a demon secret when your superiors would pop by unannounced. How could Aziraphale possibly describe the simple pleasure of receiving a gift, of sharing one, to hold on to something that reminds you of a day, a place, the way sunlight caught on copper curls and reflected in yellow eyes? It wasn't easy, that was certain. Pockets improved things greatly. Nothing up my sleeves; now you see it, now you don't.

Not that he made a habit of lying about what was in his pockets. That would be bad. But Aziraphale has found it is a lot easier to obscure the truth when you have something to hold on to. All about the distraction, you see. Never let the left hand know what the right is doing.

The first time he had to lie, he hadn't been holding anything, and to this day he isn't really sure that he actually got away with it. When he was first assigned a body, it took a bit of getting used to - all those limbs and ears and only two eyes and whatnot - but he got the hang of it eventually. He had two hands, ten fingers, and nothing to hold but the sword. He had wielded it before, but now he had to actually _hold_ it. But he didn't have the sword anymore. It was conspicuously absent from his new hands and with no pockets to hide them in, he had been forced to make up some rather flimsy excuses. That sword was the first thing Aziraphale had ever held, and he'd given it away.

And this impressed Crowley so much that he had offered to share a bit of fruit with the Angel-formerly-of-the-Eastern-gate while they waited for the rain to stop. In for a penny, Aziraphale had thought as he took that first bite and suddenly he had wished he could return the gesture, give something to Crowley, but he had no idea what a demon might like.

Thus, it happened, that on Aziraphale's travels, he would pick up little things here and there that caught his eye, put them in a pocket (or whatever passed for a pocket at the time) and save them for later when he ran into Crowley again. Correction, _if_ he ran into Crowley again. He wasn't planning on it, or hoping for it, or looking forward to it. Handy things pockets, allows you to keep things out of sight and out of mind.

Of course, there was one downside to that. He will tend to be a little forgetful, our Aziraphale. Sometimes he puts something in one pocket, and it will appear in another. Or, he will think he has just the right waistcoat, but finds some ancient papyrus in the front instead of his tickets for the opera. He has thousands of memories stowed away, all those little reminders of time spent with Crowley, or spent away from Crowley, or spent doing Crowley's job when he really should have been doing a miracle. He had always meant to actually give those gifts to Crowley, but usually, after the meal, and the wine, and the conversations that lasted longer than they should have, he simply forgot. 

Mostly, he collected flowers. Something about their tenacity, their unexpectedness - seeing a bit of green pushing up through a crack in the dirt, even in the most war-torn, or disease-ridden, or darkest places - reminded him of Crowley, and that there was a little seed of good in everyone that could grow if tended properly. He collected those plants and flowers he found interesting, or particularly colorful, or sweet smelling, and would put them in a pocket to show Crowley the next time they met. Unfortunately, something would inevitably come up in the meantime and once things settled down again, the flower was forgotten. Sometimes Aziraphale found them years later, quite by accident, and pressed them between the pages of his books instead (to be forgotten about all over again). But sometimes, they simply got lost in the limbo of an angel's pockets, waiting.

So when he is getting dressed for their anniversary date, and slips a hand into the pocket of his coat out of habit, and his fingers brush against the softness of a petal, it should not come as such a surprise when time finally catches up with the blossom outside the pocket. Before their eyes, the bloom becomes a seed. At first, Aziraphale is sad for its loss - he had wanted Crowley to enjoy the flower, because it had made him miss Crowley a little less when they were apart - but Crowley isn't bothered. He will simply plant the seed, and it will grow (Just see if it doesn't, he growls). Eventually, the greenhouse is full of plants that haven't existed in centuries, each one tied to a memory. That day in the olive grove, that temple by the bay, that horrible winter when it seemed nothing would ever grow again - all the meetings, and temptations that weren't really, and moments that never became memories. They recount them all, now that they can do it together and when Aziraphale needs something to hold, Crowley isn't far away.

Hardly counts as a miracle, really, but Aziraphale treasures his pockets all the same.


End file.
